* * * * *
I Will Follow
* * * * *
The smell of the gun is like a part of
him. His fingers know it well. They make their own path.
Coherent thought is not required.
The gun is not dirty. It has seen no
use since he last cleaned it. It is a ritual.
A meditation.
He knows the flesh this weapon has
torn. The catalogue of lives it has cut short. He sees them.
They tick over in his dreams, like a
stuttering film reel on the back of his eyelids.
The report of the muzzle wakes him,
short of breath, with a cry in the darkness.
Except that's not what wakes him these
days. When he can sleep at all.
It's the sensation that he's falling.
The sound of a body.
Meeting the pavement.
with force.
* * * * *
The flat is clean. As clean as it's
going to get.
Plastic sheeting folded neatly in the
draw next to his bed. Ready to be laid out.
Beneath them, his documents.
His good shoes are polished. His suit
hangs on the back of the door.
He's not exactly sure why he bothered
to get his hair cut.
His own thought process eludes him.
He lubricates the moving parts of the
gun. It comes together again in his hands.
Like a slow explosion in reverse, until
he is holding it in his hand again. Complete.
He brings the muzzle up to his temple,
experimentally. Not loaded.
The metal is warm from handling. It
leaves a trace of gun oil on his skin. He feels as though he is
looking down that barrel at himself. Far away. Abstracted.
He places the gun on the table before
him. Wipes fingers on the towel. Presses the heel of his hands to the
dark circles beneath his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out.
Breathes in.
How many more breaths?
Somewhere, a phone is ringing.
* * * * *
“Hello Lestrade.”
“Is that you Mycroft? “
“Of course. Listen old chap, I
think you should give John a call.”
“...”
“It would be in your best interest
to do it sooner rather than later. Oh, say, in the next two minutes?
Maybe pop round for a chat.”
“... … ... alright.”
“There's a good chap.”
* * * * *
END
* * * * *
John's gun is a Sig Sauer P226R. I watched a seemingly endless video on how to clean it. It looks quite sexy. The gun. Not the cleaning. I also read a fairly long theory on how he could possibly still have his service revolver. I'm probably on some kind of watchlist now.
P.S. - The riding whip Sherlock uses to beat corpses, is apparently the "Mark Todd Braided Leather Riding Whip" How about that?
If this is all greek to you, then my little bit of writing probably made no sense to you either.
:-) So, to explain in a sentence; Mycroft has hidden camera's watching the flat that John and Sherlock used to share until Sherlock jumped off a building, and John was a bit unstable to start with, so....yeah.
Would you get your hair cut, if you were planning to shoot yourself in the head? These are the questions that haunt me at 2am lately. That and the motivation of cross-dressers.
Yes. I am working on a purely original work of my own, not just these little emotional exercises I set for myself. I have three character introductions so far, but I'm only happy with one of them. Might get around to posting that one day too.
